RX For Love

“Here, you look like you need this,” said Nurse Fran, handing me a styrofoam cup of hot black coffee. The look in her eyes said I’d better drink it.

I sipped, burned my tongue, made a face, and put it down.

She gave me a stern look then returned to her computer at the nurse’s station.

I tried another sip. She was right, I did need this. Six-thirty was way too early, and I’d been up since five. I dreaded these early mornings when I had patients in the hospital and had to come in to see them before beginning my office day with regular appointments. I’d be dragging serious ass by two. And I had a two-and-a-half hour drive after work was done.

I loved my patients, though. They were the only reason I was able to get into the shower at five, cram in some toast and yogurt, and endure the horrible (even at that hour) Seattle traffic. I squinted at the computer screen in front of me. Damn, I’d left my glasses in the car again. I’d have to get them before I went to the office.

Mr. Brooks had come through knee surgery well, according to the electronic chart record. I reviewed the surgeon’s notes and the meds he’d prescribed. I’d have to contact him about the anti-coagulant doses; Mr. Brooks used heparin during dialysis and I had to be sure the added effect of the surgeon’s order wouldn’t be too much for him.

I turned to Nurse Fran, a legend here on the orthopedics floor, a tall, slender woman around sixty, who’d seen it all and wasn’t afraid to tell you about it.

“Got a question?” she asked before I could speak.

“When was Mr. Brooks’ last dose of enoxaparin? I’m not seeing it documented here.”

“He’s getting it this morning,” she answered at once. “Every twenty-four hours, like clockwork, that’s what the surgeon ordered. It should be in there.”

I looked again and, yes, I’d missed it.

“All right, good. I’m going to see him now.”

“The surgeon’s in with him,” she told me. “You might want to hurry, he’s pretty sexy.”

This was a damn big hospital, but I swore everyone knew I was single and that I’d had bad luck with men. My last live-in disaster had moved out months ago but people still liked to remind me that I was too good for him and deserved better. Yeah, I got it.

I marched down the hall to 5508. I stopped outside the door and heard a quiet conversation. I recognized the voice of Joe Brooks, my patient. He seemed awake and alert for the early hour. The surgeon was asking him about pain in his knee, and how he’d slept. Taking a breath, I walked in.

“Hey! Doc Westland!” Mr. Brooks grinned at the sight of me.

“Good morning,” I returned his smile and reached for his hand. He squeezed mine warmly. “How are you feeling?”

“Pretty good,” he answered. “The sawbones here is checking me out.”

I released his hand and turned to the surgeon. Oh shit, Nurse Fran was right. I didn’t know if I could handle this much sexy this early.

“Trevor Banks,” the tall, blond god offered his hand to me.

I accepted, hoping I didn’t look as awkward as I felt.

“Nice to meet you,” I said. “Shiloh Westland. I’m his nephrologist.”

“I’m working with Dr. Godfrey,” he told me. “I did the surgery under his supervision.”

“Oh, you’re a resident?” I asked.

He nodded. “Mr. Brooks is doing very well. With rehab he should regain most of his strength in that knee.”

“That’s good to hear,” I said. I tried not to stare, but damn, he was one fine looking man. His smile was warm, disarming, and the kindness in his blue eyes shone genuine. He’d gelled his hair into a trendy mess, and he sported a bit of scruff on his face.

“Doc Westland here is a single lady,” Mr. Brooks said, to my mortification.

“Is that right?” Dr. Banks smiled at me, trying not to laugh.

“That is irrelevant to your case,” I said to my patient. I felt my cheeks redden.

“Oh, I know that,” he grinned again. “Just trying to help you out a little. Doc Banks here seems pretty topnotch if you ask me.”

“Thank you,” the surgeon smiled.

“I need to talk with you about the enoxaparin dose,” I told Dr. Banks, moving into professional mode. “He’s having dialysis this morning before we turn him loose. He ordinarily gets heparin.”

Dr. Banks shook his head. “Probably won’t need it. But I’m not familiar with dialysis as you are. What’s your feeling?”

“I’d like us to discuss it with one of the clinical pharmacists,” I said.

“By all means,” he agreed.

I did a cursory check of Mr. Brooks with a stethoscope, touched his fistula access, and reviewed vitals. Dr. Banks stood by, watching. I felt no judgment from him, only a fellow physician observing a colleague.

“All right, you behave yourself,” I told my patient. “I’ll get this heparin/enoxaparin thing sorted out before they come to do your treatment.”

“Good deal. Hey, have them get my food up here ASAP. I’m starving!”

Dr. Banks and I both laughed and said we’d check into it for him, then we walked out of the room together.

“He’s a great guy,” Dr. Banks said.

“Yes, I’ve known him now for three years. He’s doing well on dialysis so far, though I’m still trying to get him on the transplant list. He has some numbers in his blood work they don’t like but we’re working on that.”

“Good,” he nodded.

We arrived at the nurse’s station where Fran looked up at us and smiled.

I gave her a warning look, and she turned back to her computer.

“You know we could talk about this over some breakfast,” Dr. Banks said before I could bring up Mr. Brooks chart on the screen.

I looked at him.

He picked up an iPad from the counter, a hospital issue. It bore his name on a sticker: Dr. Trevor Banks. “I’ve got all my notes here. What do you say?”

“Well,” I hesitated briefly, “I don’t have any other patients to see up here this morning.” I didn’t tell him I’d already eaten.

“Let’s go, then.”

He said it as if we were just going to hang out. I got a relaxed vibe from him, which seemed at odds with the vibes I got from most surgeons. They tended to be quite meticulous and a bit high-strung.

I grabbed my purse and my own iPad, and followed him after a wave at Nurse Fran. We stepped into the elevator together.

“So you’re single, eh?” he asked me with a little smile.

I sighed heavily so he’d know I wasn’t excited with this line of conversation. “Yes,” I responded.

“That’s cool. I’m not,” he lifted his left hand to show me his ring.

Of course you’re not, I thought. You’re too fucking gorgeous to be single.

“My wife and I – we’ve had some problems,” he said, shaking his head. “This is rough, you know? I work all the time and she’s working, and we hardly see each other.”’

I nodded. “Medical school is hell on marriages and relationships.”

“It may or may not work out,” he said as the elevator stopped at the cafeteria floor. He let me out first.

“I hope it will turn out the way you want,” I said diplomatically.

“My wife, she’s really career driven,” he said.

“Uh huh,” I said, not committing to the conversation any more than I had to. Maybe they needed to see a marriage counselor, not talk to a nephrologist.

He said nothing more as we wound through the selections in the cafeteria and paid separately. I spied a free table and grabbed it while he finished loading up his tray.

“You going to eat all that?” I pointed at his mound of food. He’d collected juice, milk, coffee, boiled eggs, a bagel, a large container of fruit, and yogurt.

He nodded. “Sure am. I work out in the mornings so I’m ravenous.”

I looked at my small bowl of fruit and large coffee.

“I’ve always been a big breakfast eater,” he told me, peeling an egg.

“So after we eat, we’ll track down a pharmacist,” I reminded him.

“Oh yes, of course,” he nodded. “What time is Mr. Brooks having dialysis?”

“Ten or so. He’s to be discharged around two, so he’ll just be finished around then.”

“Perfect. I’ve got him down for a follow-up next week in the office.”

I nodded. “Good, I’d like a report on that if you’d forward it to me.”

“Of course.”

We ate for a few moments, then he spoke again. “Sorry about bitching about my marriage. Sometimes I want to talk to someone to make sure I’m not wrong about how things are. You know?”

“Is your wife in the medical field?” I asked him.

“No. Right now she’s working for Governor Backstrom. Poltical advisor, policy strategy, that sort of thing.”

“So she drives to Olympia every day?” I knew a lot of people commuted from Seattle to Olympia, since it was the state capitol, but I couldn’t imagine doing it. Maybe that was the small town girl in me.

He nodded. “Sometimes she stays over for a few days and doesn’t come home until the weekend.”

“Yikes,” I said, shaking my head. He was right, they really weren’t seeing each other very much.

“She worked for my Dad,” he said, popping a grape into his mouth. “He was Governor of Idaho, his term just ended.”

“Your Dad was Governor of Idaho?” I asked incredulously.

“Yeah. I suppose you heard about that.”

“Who didn’t!” I stared at him. His father, Kyle Banks, had run an unprecedented campaign as an independent candidate in staunchly conservative Idaho, and won. His success had put the major parties on notice that they didn’t have the stranglehold on politics that they thought they had.

“What did your wife do for him?” I asked.

“She, ah, was his campaign manager.”

So his wife had basically orchestrated the most stunning election victory in years. Holy shit.

“Yeah,” he said, reading my mind. “Amanda is that good. The problem is, she’s obsessed. It’s all she thinks about, all she cares about. It’s like a junkie with drugs. She breathes it, it’s in her veins. She fucking loves politics. Sorry,” he sheepishly apologized for his swearing.

“It’s all right,” I told him. “What are you going to do?”

He shrugged. “I’m not sure. My Dad is talking about running for President. If he does, I know he’ll want her to run the campaign. “

“Wow. How does that feel? I mean your Dad. Can you imagine him as President?” I sure as hell couldn’t imagine my Dad as President.

But he nodded. “I can. My Dad, he’s got more confidence than anyone I’ve ever known. He’s smarter than shit, too.”

“So – wait,” I pointed at him. “don’t you have a sister or something?”

He looked down, smiling. “Lindsay Banks.”

“Yes!” I exclaimed, and a couple of people looked over at us.

“The movie star,” he said. “She’s my sister.”

“That must be some family you’re from,” I shook my head in wonder. How weird, though, I thought, that my patient’s surgeon was the son of a possible President, and the brother of a movie star.

“Overachievers,” he laughed. “Except for me. I can’t tell you all the times my Dad ragged on me to go to college.”

“Well, you did.”

“Not right away. I was too busy skiing and biking and chasing chicks, and hanging out in bars.”

I laughed. “I knew I got a party boy vibe from you.”

“Those days are long gone,” he assured me. “To tell you the truth, I’d like to have kids and a wife to come home to at night.”

I didn’t ask, but presumed that his wife didn’t want children and that she often wasn’t home when he got there.

“You ever been married?” he asked me.

“No,” I answered noncommittally.

“Smart,” he nodded.

“I’ve had some – relationships,” I offered. “Nothing worked out. I don’t have much luck with men, to tell you the truth.”

“Why’s that?”

I laughed. “If I knew, I’d stop picking the jerks I do.”

“That’s a shame. You’re a beautiful, successful woman.”

If he could call me beautiful at – seven-forty-five in the morning – he was either still asleep or blind.

I took a deep breath. “I’ve always had better luck being on my own. I was good in school, good in medical school. Bad in romance.”

“You’ll find the right guy.”

“I’ve thought about that, too,” I said, sipping coffee. “About having a family. I’d like to have children, and a husband to confide in, to trust. But I have to admit, I’m pretty gun shy right now. I tend to give my heart and have it stomped on.”

His blue eyes met mine. “Maybe we should explore that.”

“Explore what?” I blurted.

He seemed embarrassed at what he’d said. “I meant – we could talk. You know? Everyone needs someone to talk to, especially in our line of work. Everything is so cut and dried, so clinical and sterile.”

I couldn’t tell if he was feeding me a line, if he was horny or what. A few years ago I might have come onto him, had sex with a married man and done the stupid, typical thing I always did – fall in love. Not anymore.

“I’m not hitting on you,” he assured me.

“Good,” I said, turning back to my fruit.

“Tell me about yourself. Where are you from?”

“Wenatchee,” I named the town in central Washington state where I’d grown up.

“Been through there,” he nodded. “Nice, with all the orchards and the river.”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“I was born in Spokane but I grew up in Boise,” he said. “My Dad was a hotshot trial attorney.”

“My Dad is an engineer,” I returned. “Probably where I got my science aptitude, although my Mom is an LPN. She’s flaky, though.”

He laughed. “Yeah? So’s mine. Well, not flaky, but kind of vapid.”

“How do you think she’ll do as First Lady?”

He shook his head. “They’re divorced. My Dad’s remarried. Uh, he’s married to my wife’s mother, actually.”

“What?” I stared at him.

“That’s how we met. Amanda is Anita’s daughter. So we’re kind of step-siblings even though there’s no blood relation. I know, kind of weird.”

“Sure is,” I shook my head. Jesus. What a family he had.

“You seeing patients today?” he asked me.

I nodded. “Yes, I have appointments all day. How about you?”

“I have some follow-ups starting at eleven. And prepping for surgery Monday.”

“I can talk to the pharmacist on my own,” I offered. “You don’t necessarily have to be there. I can let you know what we come up with on the anti-coag dosing.”

He shrugged. “I don’t mind. The more I learn, the better. I haven’t had a chance to work with a nephrologist directly so if you don’t mind, I’d like to sit in on this.”

“All right,” I said. While he finished his food I tapped on my iPad to set up a meeting with one of the pharmacists within the hour. I’d be cutting it close to get back to the office in time for my first appointment, but I had to sort this out before Mr. Brooks had his dialysis treatment.

Dr. Banks – Trevor, as he insisted I call him – and I returned to the ortho floor to meet the pharmacist. She had already reviewed Trevor’s notes and my dialysis orders, and discussed the treatment dosing with us. I went in to talk with Mr. Brooks again before I headed out to my office, a few blocks away. Trevor caught me as I came past the nurse’s station on my way out.

“Hey,” he said, looking up from his iPad. “Hope you have a good day.”

“Thanks, you too.”

“Can I get your number? In case I need to get in touch with you about Mr. Brooks.”

I hesitated because I knew if he really needed to contact me the hospital could find me in about twenty seconds by searching the provider database. I didn’t have time to confront him, though, so I gave him my private cell number.

“Great,” he said, jotting it down on a pad.

“See you later,” I said, moving toward the elevator. Once inside I let out a big breath. What was that all about, anyway? Damn, he was cute. Nice, too. But that wedding ring he wore was like gigantic, neon “off limits” sign. If I pursued any sort of relationship with him, it would be trouble, plain and simple. I was pretty sure he’d been hinting around that he wanted to see me. Ordinarily I’d have been open to the idea, but I’d been stupid enough to slobber after a married man once before. I believed all the lies he told me about leaving his wife. That is, until he took her on a fabulous world cruise for their tenth anniversary and she came back pregnant. God, what a dope I was.

Thankfully, today was Friday. Between appointments I had a few moments to make a list of things I needed to do before I left for the weekend. I’d promised a friend in Wenatchee that I’d come for her daughter’s birthday party. Said daughter was turning four and she idolized me, for some reason. I was Aunt Shiloh to her. I already had her gifts in the car but still needed to pack a bag and make sure my cat, Faldo, had what he needed for the weekend.

Faldo and I lived in a modest apartment in Normandy Park, usually about thirty minutes from the University medical complex. Faldo, an overfed long-haired mixed breed cat of a weird gray color, had belonged to my last live-in lover, Julio, a self-described ‘artiste,’ who’d basically sponged off me and abandoned his cat when he gallivanted off to California to take an art fellowship at some college no one has ever heard of. I still didn’t know if the story was true or not. I just knew that he’d absconded with some of my better bedding and towels, as well as some kitchen items (including my Cuisinart). Faldo didn’t even like me. I only tolerated him because I wouldn’t take him to the shelter, and I couldn’t turn him out in the street. He’d been named after one of Julio’s heroes, the golf pro Nick Faldo. Julio had fancied himself quite the amateur golfer for about six months, until the golf pro I paid to instruct him told him he should stick to art.

The cat awaited me on his favorite window ledge, where he sat surveying his realm almost all day long when he wasn’t napping on my pillow on the bed. We lived on the third floor and he had a view of the parking lot. He seemed to be entertained by the comings and goings of everyone who lived here. He only turned to look at me when I came in; he could scarcely be bothered to acknowledge my existence most of the time. I loaded up his feeding dish and put down two bowls of water, even though I knew he’d drink out of the toilet.

I microwaved a frozen dinner while I looked over the list I’d been making all day. I’d been specific about clothing and shoes, and after I ate I packed them into a small bag. I shoved my makeup bag on top and zipped it up. Into a large paper shopping bag I crammed two bottles of wine, my phone charger, and a jacket. Fall weather in Wenatchee was a bit more nippy than here on the west side of the state. I changed into jeans and a comfortable cotton blouse, and hoisted my purse, the duffel bag, and paper bag in my arms, and said goodbye to the cat as I left him alone.

He didn’t even look my way.